


let you have your way with me

by brodinsons (aeon_entwined)



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Frottage, Groping, Identity Porn, M/M, Power Dynamics, Sthenolagnia, Voyeurism, javert has issues: the novel, valjean has had it with his shit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-10
Updated: 2013-03-10
Packaged: 2017-12-04 21:00:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/715038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aeon_entwined/pseuds/brodinsons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Javert has <a href="http://www.rightdiagnosis.com/s/sthenolagnia/intro.htm">sthenolagnia</a>. A lapse of concentration results in more ramifications than he ever thought possible.</p>
            </blockquote>





	let you have your way with me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tvglow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tvglow/gifts).



> for the jacko to my rusty

It began as a simple tactic to validate his suspicions regarding M. Madeleine's true identity. 

That's all. Nothing more, nothing less. His self restraint has been far and away enough to keep his enjoyment of watching the mayor straining beneath the weight of burdens no other man was inclined to lift to a purely superficial level. The longer he watches Madeleine, the more he is convinced that his suspicions are correct. There is not one man he recalls that could work so tirelessly, other than the wily 24601.

Still, it seems that the mayor is growing suspicious himself. He never asks why Javert does not offer his assistance with the various burdens, but the look in his eyes suggests that he will eventually. Javert finds he does not look forward to that day.

Even less so now that his self-imposed explanation for why he remains in the mayor's presence at these odd hours is growing more and more flimsy. He has everything he needs to prove to Paris that he has their man. Why hasn't he just _done it_ , then? What is keeping him here? He finds he dislikes those questions even more than he dislikes the notion of having to explain himself to the mayor.

Not the mayor. This is _Valjean_. The parole-breaker masquerading as an honest man with honest intentions.

Javert grits his teeth, humiliation flooding him as he realizes that his momentary lapse in concentration has resulted in a somewhat unfortunate change of the state of his faculties. He flicks his gaze back to where Valjean is hoisting boxes of papers and other documents into storage at the back of his office, then groans inwardly as his cock twitches beneath the thick cloth of his trousers. This wasn't meant to happen. He had it under control. He was perfectly able to appreciate the play of musculature beneath Valjean's shirt and waistcoat on a purely aesthetic level. He _was_ , but no longer.

He thinks to press his palm against his groin, just for a brief moment to relieve some of the pressure before someone notices. It does, but not nearly enough. The office seems strangely quiet.

When he raises his eyes, Javert is horrified to find that not only has Valjean paused in his work, but he is staring across the small space of the desk and a few feet beyond at him. 

His hand snaps about the hilt of his rapier, rattling the blade in its sheath.

"Are you alright, Inspector?" comes the inevitable question, neutral and unsuspecting. 

"Of course," he grits out.

Something unknowable flits across Valjean's face at his response, and Javert almost gives a victorious shout when those eyes transform from the gentle hazel of the mayor's to the feral brown of the convict's. _I have you now_ , he thinks, the prowling wolf within him delirious with the promise of a kill so close at hand. _I have you, 24601._

The taste of victory is strong enough he could almost ignore the way his cheeks heat with shame as Valjean steps away from his task, sizing him up. For there is no other way to explain the way the convict is looking at him, raking his gaze from head to foot as though examining a prized stallion.

Valjean moves closer, crowding him against the desk. Javert backs away until his hips connect with the wooden edge, preventing him from moving any further. Only moments ago, he was the hunter, closing the noose about the neck of his prey. Now, he is trapped by the convict's impressive bulk, caught between the immovable weight of the desk and the piercing eyes that have haunted his dreams for nearly a decade.

There's something far too knowing in those eyes, far too perceptive. If Valjean was as smart as history dictates, he would have made a run for it by now. He would have overpowered Javert and escaped. He has not.

Javert swallows thickly, all too aware of the blood pounding through his veins, filling his cock. There is nowhere to hide now.

"Are you quite sure?"

Strong fingers snatch at his sword belt, undoing it before he can voice a protest. His rapier falls to the floor with a clatter of steel on stone. Javert makes no move to retrieve it. His knuckles are white on the edge of the false mayor's desk.

"Absolutely," he manages, shocked that his voice is as steady as it is. Everything is scattering to the wind around him.

One large hand catches a wrist, pinning it to the desk. The warmth of Valjean's skin is startling, though the callouses on his skin only serve to prove his identity all the more. The pressure of Valjean's fingers against his pulse point remind him that he is no longer in control, despite his feeble claims to the contrary. Valjean could overpower him without effort, though Javert knows he would put up a fight regardless.

Valjean looms over him, using the scant difference between their heights to his full advantage. Javert swallows, leaning as far back as the desk will allow.

"I have seen you watching me, Inspector," Valjean intones, voice pitched low and with just a hint of a threat. Javert's cock gives another pathetic twitch. "Have you seen enough to draw your necessary conclusions?"

Javert bares his teeth, his hand spasming beneath Valjean's grip. "Yes," he declares, with all the bravado he no longer feels. "And plenty more besides."

"Good."

Valjean's free hand moves and before Javert can prepare himself, grips him firmly at the apex of his legs. His entire body jolts violently, and Javert is mortified by the groan that tears free of his throat. The hand still in Valjean's grasp spasms again, though the movement is weaker than before.

"Is this what you've wanted, Javert?" Valjean growls, a harsh exhalation washing across Javert's cheek. "Is this what you watch me for?"

Javert bucks helplessly as Valjean squeezes him through the fabric of his trousers, a strangled sound clawing its way up from his throat. His free hand has somehow found its way to Valjean's upper arm, clutching at the shifting muscles there. His skin feels overheated and stretched too tight, as though he is being consumed by a fever. He doesn't know whether to laugh or sob.

"I wanted proof," he grits out, panting as Valjean continues squeezing and rubbing his palm against his cock through his trousers. "I know who you are. I only need the evidence brought before the Palais de Justice."

Valjean bares his teeth, and Javert arches into the firm line of his body as he _grips_ him with the apparent intent of leaving him unable to form words. If only his superiors could see him now, bent across a desk beneath the convict he has chased for a decade.

"You know who I am?" the words hold a mocking edge, and Javert bares his teeth again in reply. "Then why have you stood by and done nothing? Why have you not arrested me?"

In truth, Javert does not have an answer to any of those questions. This man is Valjean, the convict, but he is also the mayor of Montreuil-sur-Mer, the master of a hundred workers and the town's proclaimed saint. How can he be both? Is that what has stayed his hand? Is it something else entirely?

Valjean's body is pressed against his from knee to chest, and Javert is distantly relieved to feel the reciprocated interest of Valjean's cock against his own. He is not the only one falling this day.

Valjean has released him but that hand has found its way into his short-cropped hair, gripping the locks tight in his strong fingers. Idly, Javert wonders if he intends to harm him. Perhaps even snap his neck.

His blood races as he stares up into the face of the man who was once the legend of Toulon. Would he be so again if he were returned? Does that irrepressible fire still burn? Valjean's eyes burn with a hint of that flame, and Javert finds himself struck dumb by the sheer power behind every gesture this man makes.

"Who am I, Javert?" Valjean growls low, tightening his fingers in his hair to the point of pain. 

Javert _whimpers_ , tears stinging the corners of his eyes as he bucks helplessly against Valjean's weight, his eyes nearly rolling back when the man thrusts down against him in counterpoint, providing them both with friction through the layers of their trousers. He is falling already, losing his grip on reason.

_"Who am I?!"_

The hand in his hair _yanks_ , forcing his neck to bend in a graceful curve, and without warning, Valjean's teeth sink into the vulnerable flesh beneath his jaw.

 _"Valjean-!"_ Javert _howls_ , the world splintering into a thousand glittering shards behind his eyelids. 

The hand still pinned to the desk by Valjean's spasms helplessly, and the one left free clutches at Valjean's broad shoulder, riding out his climax as he spends himself within his trousers. Javert moans weakly as Valjean continues thrusting against him, powerful hips shoving him against the desk until he's almost certain there will be bruises on the back of his waist from the treatment. The notion inspires a feral sort of thrill to spiral through his gut, reminding him of how very far he's fallen this day.

Valjean spends several moments later, exhaling a low rumble of sound against the sensitive flesh of Javert's throat as he finds his own climax. Javert wonders when he decided he wanted to know what that event felt like. Now he knows, and he feels strangely lost.

Once they regain their bearings, Valjean straightens, releasing both Javert's wrist and his hair, then stepping back to allow him room to breathe.

Javert remains slumped over the desk, panting softly as he stares up at the ceiling far above their heads. This was dangerous. Anyone could have walked into the may-Valjean's office and caught them like this. What were they thinking? What have they _done_?

"Javert," Valjean's voice breaks him free of his turbulent thoughts.

He pushes himself up, balancing his weight with his arms against the desk top. He eyes Valjean dazedly, almost surprised to see the man observing him in a similar manner.

"I have an extra coat," he gestures at the general area of Javert's front, and Javert glances down to see the stain of his spend across the front of his trousers. _Damn._ "You can have it, if you wish."

Valjean is in no better condition, though the cut of his own overcoat hides the stain on his trousers well enough. Javert swallows down what little pride he still retains and nods. "Thank you."

A small part of him wonders why Valjean hasn't simply thrown him out of the factory and left him to be humiliated by the public just outside the doors. He hasn't denounced the man. It is fully within his rights as mayor to do so.

Then, Valjean is thrusting a moderately-sized overcoat into his hands, expression carefully neutral. Javert takes it, slipping his arms into it and buttoning the front down to avoid embarrassing himself further. It fits strangely well. Perhaps Valjean outgrew it some time ago.

They stare at one another again for a moment, uncertain. Then, Valjean crouches down to retrieve the fallen rapier.

"I look forward to your report this evening, Inspector," Valjean straightens, and just like that, Javert finds his hands moving to the small of his back, his posture falling into parade rest. "Good luck on your patrol."

He holds out the belt and sheath, which Javert takes after a moment of indecision. 

"Thank you, M'sieur le Mayor," he replies curtly, offering a brief bow as he straps the belt over his coat.

That done, he strides for the door, eager to escape the room that seems to be doing its best to drown him in its oppressive silence. He glances back once when his hand lands on the door's handle, expecting to find Valjean already gone.

Instead, Valjean is standing by the mayor's desk, gazing at him with an inscrutable expression.

Javert swallows, then lurches through the doorway, heart in his throat.

_What have I done?_


End file.
